


Morning Breaks

by TriplePirouette



Series: Breathe Symphonies [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-29
Updated: 2012-02-29
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:42:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriplePirouette/pseuds/TriplePirouette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the “I Will Not Kiss You” Universe (technically in the middle of that story). Rumpelstiltskin wakes up after the curse has been enacted and tries to make sense of memories. Rumbelle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning Breaks

**Author's Note:**

> AN: There was such an overwhelmingly WONDERFUL response to “I Will Not Kiss You”! Thank you to everyone who reviewed! I always knew I'd go back and play in that Universe, I just didn't think it would be so soon! And I'm posting now because OMG the ANGST and SADNESS in this ship! Fluff, here's FLUFF! (ish...) 
> 
> I've got at least two more stories from this Universe to be posted soon, so stay tuned :) 
> 
> AN 2: I've decided to call this series “Breathe Symphonies” based on a line in the song Hurricane by Something Corporate. The line is “With your babies breath breathe symphonies, come on sweet catastrophe.” I love that line, and have even thought about writing some Rumbelle to another of their songs “Konstantine,” but I'm not there yet. I also like that their breath, especially in the first story when they can't kiss, is very influential.

 

Rumpelstiltskin wakes up sputtering, the feeling of suffocating in a dungeon under a cloud of lightning and smoke fading so fast he wonders if it was just a dream. As he breathes in the crisp, clean air the feeling stops short of fading and labels itself a memory. Foreign thoughts slowly invade his head, fuzzy and unformed, sitting in his mind like a completely different life. He blinks his eyes open and stares at the wall across from him. Painted bright blue in a way that he's sure that he somehow did and yet completely unfamiliar with, it is empty but for a heavily draped window that only lets in a sliver of sunlight. He lifts his hand from the warmth of the blanket, studying the human form that he has been missing for so long. The weathered skin holds no trace of black or blue, and when he presses his bare hand to his chest he can feel his heart beat again.

 

He shifts, snuggling down into the softness of the bed and blankets. Bright white, even in the darkness of the room. He'd bargained with the Queen for comfort and riches, but he could not have been sure she would hold up her end- there was so little of it he could control from that dammed cell under the earth. He is enveloped in soft warmth, so different from the damp, rocky cell, and can't help but allow himself to wallow in the comfort, fluffing the pillow under his head and bouncing his weight into the mattress to feel it bounce back. He can feel a softness wrapping his legs and sees an image of himself putting on blue flannel pajama pants, though he knows this has never happened in his life. The new memories are flooding in, there when he reaches for them, but the old memories are sitting tightly in his mind, firmly refusing to leave. There were so many things to tend to now that the spell had been enacted, but the comfort he's found makes him think they could wait a little while, at least. After all, he did have nearly thirty years of time standing still to set up all his little pawns in the right places.

 

He shifts deeper into his small cocoon, and groans at the old and unwelcome twinge in his knee.

 

A feminine grumble responds.

 

He rolls over slowly to see the delicate back of a woman in blue flannel, brilliant brown hair spread across the pillow. “Must you?” she groans out, trying to snuggle deep into her pillow.

 

More memories flood into his mind, becoming sharper as he concentrates. His heart beats faster in his chest: it is the one thing he hoped for most, but could not request lest the Queen discover his weakness. “Belle...”

 

She rolls over, her bright eyes heavy with sleep and her curls riotous around her face. “I know you want to get to the shop to fix that blasted bell, but we agreed that I have until the alarm goes off.” He opens his mouth to reply, but she presses a manicured finger to his lips. “Nope. Either you let me go back to sleep or you get up. Deal?”

 

Her finger still on his lips, he nods. Her eyes flutter closed, a smile quickly fading as sleep comes easily for her. Her hand drifts from his lips to settle on his chest, the feel of her bare hand on his flesh sending a shiver through him.

 

He stares. It is Belle, his Belle that he left so long ago to be imprisoned in a dark, dank cavern far away. He left her. He had hoped, but didn't dare believe, that they would be reunited in this world. His mind supplies a new name for her: _Jolie_.  A french name for beautiful. So fitting.

 

His hand drifts up to hold hers close, and he can't help but notice the matching bands of gold. A small smirk fills his face. He asked for everything he could desire. Seems the Queen was a bit sloppy in granting that wish: he got more.

 

He only has a moment to continue his appraisal of her before a harsh siren cuts through the quiet. _Alarm clock_ , his mind supplies, and though it feels as if he's used one every day of his life, it still is completely foreign. Without opening her eyes, Belle _-Jolie_ his mind reminds him- rolls over and smacks at a black box with bright red flashing numbers. She rolls back to him, tucking herself into his embrace. “That wasn't so hard, was it?”

 

He clears his throat, still so off balance by everything that has happened in such a short time. “No, not at all.”

 

She chuckles and pushes up on her elbow, smiling down at him. Her eyes soften when she sees the wonder on his face. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

 

He reaches up, taming her hair back over her shoulder. “Like what?”

 

Her smile is still sleepy and he wishes that he could hold this moment forever. “Like you're happy to see me.”

 

The words tumble out before he can stop them, a herald back to another life. “I'm not unhappy.”

 

There is no recognition in her eyes as she chuckles and kisses him on the cheek before pushing out of his embrace and the bed. He sees her wholly for the first time, slipping white fuzzy slippers on her feet and bare legs beneath what is obviously the top to the bottoms he is wearing. She shakes her head, smiling, as she leans on the doorway to another small room- _the bathroom_ . “If I spent my entire life studying only you, you'd still find ways to surprise me.” She points to the door, a familiar gold bracelet just visible on her wrist. “Now get a move on, coffee and breakfast, my good man, or we'll never get to that bloody broken bell before I'm due at the library.” She shuts the door, the sound of running water filtering out from under it. 

 

He flops back on the bed, flabbergasted. She doesn't know- not at all. He shuts his eyes tightly, wondering if when he opens them this will all be a dream. He feels a ball of warm softness hit him in the chest and he opens his eyes to see his shirt laid out over him. He turns back to the open doorway where he can see tantalizing amounts of bare arm, leg, and hip peaking out of the open crack. “Well? Go!”

 

She disappears behind the door again and he laughs. Gods help him, he laughs out loud. He presses the top to his nose, just enough of her beneath unfamiliar perfumes to tell him that yes, this is real.

 

*~*~*

 

He dresses - _in fine designer suits-_ in clothing that doesn't fit nearly enough like the second skin of supple leather and shoes that keep him from being nimble. He grabs the cane leaning by the bed: the twinge in his knee is back to the full blown pain and weakness of a third, completely different life, and makes his way through the house. 

 

Memories that are not really his assault him with every inch:

 

_He catches her while she's trying to hang new curtains and reaches just an inch too far._

 

_The way she painted the hallway four different shades of green before changing her mind and painting it peach._

 

_Quiet nights spent sitting next to one another staring at the fire, content to share silence._

 

He can equate each one to a moment from their former life to one of the new memories. What he has no reference for are the memories of the things in the kitchen: the _electronics_ that his fingers simply know how to use, the muscle memory that tells him where they keep the coffee filters and the canister of coffee and the precise combination of water to grounds that Jolie likes.

 

He stares at the coffee running into the clear carafe, trying to find some order in the chaos of his mind. Old and new memories sit like warriors facing battle, but neither side moves to conquer the other. As one memory surfaces, the corresponding one from his other life simply stands against it, reminding him of a duality that he knows no other person in this new town will feel. The memories stare each other down, but keep equal ground. He hears her coming down the stairs and turns from the brewing coffee and his tangle of thoughts. Bare feet pad quietly on the wood floors as she nearly floats into the room, holding a handful of translucent fabric.

 

“If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times,” she begins, shaking the bundle at him.

 

 _You've never told me at all_ , his mind supplies, but he says nothing.

 

“Please, for the love God, do not put my stockings in the dryer.” She tosses them into the garbage can before stepping past him and opening the big silver box behind him. _Refrigerator._ “I count ten pairs you've ruined in the past month alone.” She's stacking eggs and cheese and vegetables in her arms, taking them over to the counter and pulling a pan down from over the stove. “Omelet?”

 

He nods, and they work quietly for some time. He loses himself in his mind as he waits for the coffee to finish. Whatever that fabric was, he'd never laundered it for her in the castle. She'd done that. He'd even sat with her from time to time, talking as she scrubbed handfuls of fabric over the washboard. Another memory calls to the fore front: him standing before a big white box _washing machine_ and tossing in piles of clothing and thick blue liquid. Her pulling the beige fabric up her legs and pointing to the large holes, a tired look on her face. Things that have never happened, but the memories are clear and true. At the stove she is chopping and stirring and humming softly, pulling a dozen memories past his mind on quick succession: true ones from mornings in the castle when he'd find her brewing tea and stirring porridge, false ones of mornings spent at the counter, drinking coffee and feeding each other pastries. He lets the false memories guide him, pulling out mugs and sugar and cream and pouring the coffee when it is ready.

 

“Oh, must you?” she groans when he pulls the chipped tea cup to his lips. He stops short, looking at it in confusion. Memories of both worlds led him to it, and he didn't second guess the choice, just as he didn't hesitate to pull the mug adorned with roses out for her. She shakes her head, and he knows she believes they've had this argument before. “Fine. But when you split your lip on it, don't expect me to be sympathetic.” She goes back to the eggs in the pan, and he can wait no longer.

 

He places the mug down and pulls her away from the stove, slanting his lips tightly over hers. He feels like a drowning man gasping for air. The feel of her lips is better than the memory that he cherished, except that here there is no way for her kiss to expunge his magic. They are simply two people, kissing. She drops the spatula on the counter and winds her arms around his neck, returning the kiss fervently. Their lips know one another, they move like two long lost lovers over and through and across until there is nothing left but the feel of their bodies pressed together and the way her tongue dips softly out to taste him.

 

He pulls his lips away, gasping for breath. He feels the puff of air from her breath, a thing that used to be an exquisite torture, but is now the best feeling in the world. She begins to smile, begins to talk, but only one syllable slips past her lips, and it makes her eyes open wide in surprise. “Rum...”

 

She collapses against him, moaning and clutching for her head. She tosses in his arms until he has no choice but to lower them to the floor, pulling her tightly to him. Her body spasms, pulling into a tight ball and he sees memories of nightmares filled with screams and scourges and flaying and blood and he knows no way to make it stop. Her fingers claw at her scalp, her eyes screwed shut, her teeth biting into her lip until there's a drop of blood slipping down her chin. _Not like this_ , he pleads in his mind, _not by a kiss, not when I've just gotten her back..._

 

He can smell the eggs burning, but he doesn't care. He holds her tight through the shivers and shakes, as words and moans and curses slip out in strangled cries. Slowly, the shaking stops and gives way to tears. She slowly relaxes her body, wincing, but does not pull away. She wraps tightly into his embrace, matching her breathing to his until they've both calmed. When she finally takes control of her emotions, she looks up at him in wonder. “Rumpel?”

 

He lifts a hand to her cheek, searching for and finding the recognition in her eyes that he had so dearly hoped to find this morning. A memory he's replayed in his mind so many times echos in his head: _Is it... is it true that a kiss can lift a curse?_ His eyes snap shut as he pulls her close to his chest, rocking. “I am here, Belle. I am here.”

 

*~*~*

 

They don't go to the shop or the library that morning.

 

Still curled on the floor, she begs him to tell her everything. He starts with the broad strokes in what is a long and complicated tale: where he was, how he came to be captured, how he wasn't sure if she'd stayed at his home or gone back to her father. He helps her stand and starts to give her some detail of the Queen's plot, warming her hands around a fresh mug of coffee. She listens with rapt attention, nodding and saying little. He sits across from her at the table and asks if she has questions. She shakes her head and stands, moving to the stove and the pan of burnt eggs. Without a word she takes the spatula and starts to scrape away the blackened mess.

 

“You're not my housekeeper, love,” he protests, standing to stop her.

 

The warmth that lingers in her quiet voice is unexpected. “No, I'm your wife.”

 

He looks down at the chipped tea cup in his hands. “We can... change that... if you're uncomfortable with it.” His leg shakes, and he doesn't breathe.

 

Belle steps back to him, taking his hand away from the cup and grasping it in hers. “It's true love... we simply need to uncover more of it.” She shifts closer, her lips mere inches away from his, the memories so close to the surface for both of them. “I do believe I will kiss you now.”

 

He stretches his neck forward. “I would be very glad if you did.”

 

Her lips meet his again without hesitation and he thinks that even if he lives a thousand lifetimes and tames every magic there is, he will never understand the true power behind a kiss.

 

*~*~*

 

He finds her sitting on the steps of the porch after lunch, just staring at the street. He clutches at the ornate cane reflexively, still unsure in his limping gate as he moves to join her. “Penny for your thoughts,” he offers, the colloquialism sitting sideways on his tongue. Another thing he's never said before _like television or microwave or computer_ that simply seems the right thing to say.

 

She sighs. “Trying to make more deals, Mr. Gold?” His new name seems wrong when uttered from her lips. She feels it just as surely as he does, letting her lips wrap around it again silently.

 

He shakes his head, sitting gingerly beside her and watching as a car drives past them. “Perhaps. Perhaps I'm just curious.”

 

She sighs heavily again, lifting a bright yellow dandelion that's been dangling from her fingers and begins picking off petals. “You made this curse, did you not?” He nods, blowing on the flower to press a loose petal to the wind. “How did you know about all these things?”

 

He rests his cane on the step below his feet and folds his hands over the golden handle, letting his chin rest there as he watches her. “What do you mean?”

 

“I've never seen a coffeemaker before, nor a refrigerator nor a car, and yet I have all these memories about how to work every one. I have memories about towns that didn't exist, about things I've never done... How did that happen?”

 

He thinks about it for a second, and sees why she's taken up residence out here to watch the town stir around her. Everyone else has no recollection of the other world, only the fuzzy memories of this one. He knows that before this day, no one he knew had even dreamt of a car, but that they all know how to drive one. He even knows where he keeps his keys to the car, and has a memory of being stuck on a road just outside the forest where he changed a tire in the rain as Jolie Gold held an umbrella over both of them.

 

He takes a deep breath and leans close to her ear, his words barely a whisper because no one else should ever overhear them. “The curse is at once precise and entirely broad. It will have worked based on what was in the Queen's mind and heart when she cast it. She would not have had to think 'this is a car, here's how to drive it,' only that she wants us to have new memories of this life, not the other. The curse will have done the rest.”

 

Belle's eyes lose focus as she thinks, and he watches her lovely face because he doesn't know how long he'll have with her when the spell was designed to keep people from their happy endings. She drops the bare stem into the grass and reaches out to take his hand in hers. He obliges, letting her turn it over and over again, letting her get used to his unfamiliar touch. “It's an awful lot to take in,” she says, threading her fingers through his and gripping his hand tightly, “but I think she's already lost.”

 

He regards her, so honest and sincere. He can't for the life of him understand why she cares for him, but finds that he's done questioning it. “How so?”

 

“Who will remember? You and I and perhaps her- but no one else.” She shakes her head. “People can not be unhappy if they do not know they are unhappy. I have not yet seen one person walk down this street without a smile or a wave or some kind of lightness to them.” She looks in his eyes. “They don't know what they've lost, so they can't miss it.”

 

“We know,” he whispers.

 

She drops her head on his shoulder, pulling their clutched hands into her lap. “Yes, so I shall miss it for them.”

 

He drops his lips to her forehead. Tomorrow, he will tell her of his plan. He'll tell her about the baby girl who will return, about the book that he must find, and about the child that will be the Queen's _Regina's_ downfall. For now, he's content to simply be in her presence again, to listen to her soft breathing, and to try to sort the memories out that have begun to jumble and flurry around in his mind.

 

Today is for the woman beside him. Tomorrow, the long game begins.

 


End file.
